Untitled
by assassinette
Summary: Mindless babble story about Raw. Take a readthrough and whatever. First one I've written for this whole thing, so let me know what you think.


The limousine peeled into the parking lot at an incredibly ridiculous speed, screeching to a loud and grinding halt on the pavement of the Madison Square Garden arena in New York City. 

The man who stepped out was furious; dressed down in a pinstripe suit; he was clearly not in a good mood after being taken around the city of New York on a wild goose chase. He had made a promise to a good friend the week before, and now he was so close to breaking the promise on the account of that blond bastard in the ring.

He stormed through the hallway, past the locker rooms and towards the steel steps that would lead him to that black curtain that would send him out into the ringside area, where over seventeen thousand strong-willed fans would be chanting both his name and his moniker.

As he stormed down the hallway, everyone practically cleared a path for him. They'd seen him this angry before, and nobody wanted to be on the receiving end of that anger. It definitely wasn't pretty. They knew that there wasn't a soul alive on the planet that could curb his temper at that very moment as he threw his jacket and shirt and tie down on the ground with each heavy step until he was finally out of their view.

He climbed up the steps and heard that loud, dark music hit and heard the fans cheer, but his mind wasn't on any of that. It was on the man bleeding in the ring, the two men who were responsible and the Memphis wrestling legend who was laid out at ringside, trying to help his best friend from some violent fate.

He moved down the ramp, and slid into the ring before pummeling on both men. After gaining the access to a steel chair, he leveled the biggest bully in the company with it and after some hesitation, dragged over the bloodied and battered commentator, dressed in a torn Oklahoma Sooners jersey, and after a slight hesitation, draped an arm over the chest of the fallen blond warrior.

"Count." It was one word, and one word that the referee was going to listen to, and within a count of three, it was down in the record books. Jim Ross had defeated Triple H, and man, next Monday, was Triple H ever going to be pissed.

"Cutting it a little close to the wire, aren't we, Dave?"

Dave Batista looked over at the trainer's table, where Jerry "The King" Lawler sat with an ice pack to his jaw, and Jim Ross was barely conscious, being stitched up by several trainers. There was blood everywhere on him, and Batista just wanted to be sick. He had seen and been a part of some of the most grueling and disgusting beat-downs, but in this case, it was the worst of the worst. To see the former World Heavyweight Champion Triple H beat down a mere commentator was despicable.

"Sorry, Jerry," he apologized, hands on his waist. He hadn't bothered to go back and find the top part of his attire, so he just stood in the trainer's room, dressed from the waist down in his pinstripe slacks, still slightly winded from the physicality of the assault out in the ring. "I got here as fast as I could. Hell, didn't you see it? I was driving the limo…" He sighed. "Of course you didn't see it. You were trying to help J.R. when I got there." He looked down at the ground and stared from left to right before looking up again. "That despicable son of a bitch," he said, running his tongue along the inside of his lip. He was frustrated; with _Backlash_ two weeks away, Triple H was definitely pushing his buttons in the worst way. He looked over at Jim, who was making inaudible noises of pain as he was being stitched up. He walked away from Jerry and over to the table where Jim lay getting stitched up. "You okay, Jim?" he asked.

"Yeah huh," he said, his thick Oklahoma accent mixed with severe pain. He wasn't a wrestler, and that's why he was so upset by seeing it. Sure, he'd roughed up his share of people, but they were all wrestlers, they could all handle it. But the fact of the matter was that when it came to the ring announcers, the backstage attendants, reporters, and commentators, he left them alone because he knew that there would be no fight. It would just be an assault.

"I'm so sorry I didn't get here sooner," he apologized. "I swear, that limo driver was drunk. I kept telling him, 'I'm late. I need to get to the arena,' and he wound up driving me through Central Park! I wound up throwing him out of the car by the Carnegie Deli and driving here myself."

"That's okay," Jerry told him. "Try not to worry about it too much. Just look at it this way: it's officially down in the record books that Jim Ross beat the Game!" He winced as a sharp stab of pain seared down his jaw. "Anyway, at least you showed up."

"That's not the point," he said. "The fact of the matter is that I should have been here when the match started to make sure that none of this got out of hand."

"Like you could really help it," Jerry retorted. He shrugged.

"I wonder if he and Ric are still around," he said, staring around the room. It was a large, bare room with off-white walls and an ugly steel grey metal floor.

"Yeah, right. Triple H and Ric Flair staying at the crime scene? They're probably halfway to Mexico by now." Batista smirked.

"I wouldn't be surprised," he replied. He inhaled sharply and said, "Are you sure you guys are going to be all right?"

"I'm fine," Jerry told him, touching his face. It was beet red, icy and numb, but still tender to the touch. "It's J.R. we gotta worry about. Especially next week when Triple H gets back. I'm sure he's _real_ happy that you helped J.R. beat him. It's definitely not something I'm sure he wants in the record books."

"I wouldn't be too worried about Triple H," he told them. "Hell, Triple H just needs to worry about Triple H because once I get my hands on him for what happened tonight, he's a dead man." He shook hands with Jerry. "I gotta get going," he said. "Figure I'll hit the gym before I gotta get ready for my flight in the morning." He looked over Jim, who had been cleaned up and stitched with a giant Band-Aid over the stitches, just in case of the fact that it actually got split open yet again. "You gonna be okay, J.R.?" he asked.

"Yeah, champ, I'll be fine," he drawled. "Just go on home." Batista nodded, shook hands with the injured commentator and walked out of the trainer's office.

He was driving the limo back to the airport, and he was bored. He had the window wide open, blowing in the cold air just to try and keep him awake. His head was leaned to the side, on his hand as he stared out at the sprawling New York road ahead of him. He couldn't help but be angry that he hadn't gotten there sooner. Batista was only doing an interview with J.R., and he didn't deserve to be thrown into a match with Triple H.

Trying to clear his thoughts, he turned on the radio on the limo and really horrible soft music started to fill the limo. "What the hell is this garbage?" he asked himself, and started to mess around with the dial on the station. Finally, the haunting sound of Linkin Park's "Numb" began to play softly and he turned it up loud. He was kind of anxious to get to the airport, return the limo and just rent a car. The limo wasn't exactly the most subtle vehicle.

He was definitely going to have his work cut out for him this year and he knew it. He was already being staked out by his former mentor for turning on him. "Yeah, I'm really gonna go to _SmackDown_ after he tries to have me run over," he said to himself with a chuckle, stopping at the set of traffic lights before the airport.

Not only that, he now had Edge and Randy Orton – whenever his shoulder healed - to worry about, not to mention all the other people who would try to step up to him with some vacant dream of being the best in the business. Like his opponent for the next week, Christian. "Christian has to be the dumbest guy on the roster," he said to himself, shaking his head. "I can't believe that he really thinks he's gonna just steam roll me next week." He turned the limo into the parking lot at the airport and climbed out, grabbing his things from the trunk. This was definitely a night that he wanted to try and forget about, but he knew it wouldn't be that easy. With only two weeks until _Backlash_, Triple H was being his usual stupid self and trying to make others angry. What was so stupid about it was he was fairly sure that Triple H knew that he couldn't beat Batista, and yet he was still trying to make the big man angry.

He couldn't help but wonder about Jim and Jerry's health on the way back to his hotel. He had traded in that long, sleek black stretch limo for a silver convertible. He had the roof up; it was a cold night, and he definitely did not have the energy to put the top down. He couldn't help but wonder how Jim must have been feeling walking down to the ring area all alone, looking for him, hoping that he would be there to help. He tried to push the thought out of his mind as he continued to drive along the crowded New York road.

Once he found his hotel, he parked the car and got ready for a night of rest and relaxation. After all, he had a lot to think about regarding everything that had been happening to him since he had eliminated John Cena to win the _Royal Rumble_. With an exhale, he slung his bag over his shoulder and went into the hotel room, getting ready to relax for his night.


End file.
